Two More Months
by Avila Deymene
Summary: Summer, 2023. Albus Severus Potter is seventeen, and dying. Herein lies the tale of two, precious months, a to-do list, a grieving family, and coming full circle. A co-authored story between Avila Deymene and Lola di Penates.
1. Letters: A prologue

A/N: This is not a story of giving up. In some ways, it is a story of acceptance. Sometimes acceptance is a challenging thing to do, especially when it goes against the wishes of others, and above all, self preservation.

Albus' choice is not for everyone. After all, there is a tremendous challenge in continuing the fight.

This story is dedicated to my sister, who fights for every new day.

* * *

><p><span>Letters: A prologue<span>

_there are ten letters between __**l**__ife and deat__**h**_

**~.~**

**Scorpius H. Malfoy to Albus S. Potter – 29****th**** July 2022**

_A,_

_Before you get started; yes I do realise we saw each other fourteen hours ago, and no I'm not diligently pining away for you. There's still over a month to do that, or just get used to the fact that my father dislikes you and hence, there isn't any time for more frivolity at the Potter household._

_This isn't, believe it or not, another love letter (I __know__ you file these away, don't deny it), but more of a pleading note. Pleading, because I left my Quidditch robes at your house and I __kind of__ need them back. Quite desperately, actually, because Merlin knows my mother will go absolutely spare if she thinks I've lost them, and Merlin also knows she does __not__ need any more stress or she will spontaneously combust._

_If you have decided to act as my best mate should and find the sweaty, very lovely smelling items, I should remind you that they're at the bottom of your washing basket. At least, I think that's where I put them, unless your sister's mental friend has attempted to salvage a reminder of me. I know you hate it when I point out that in general, muggles are crazy berks however, she is the best casing point._

_I realise you're going to make some sort of cruel dig about all of this, and yes, I do apologise for trying to con your dear mother (bless her soul), into washing my sweaty robes, but I __really need them__, Al. So stop whinging about how lazy I may be and please owl them over as soon as possible. I would floo back and collect them myself but you'll never guess who turned up at the Manor today, shutting off all the connections and restoring the wards to Azkaban standards._

_Yes, it is Sir Peacock himself. The crazy berk has gone all security conscious, again. Sweet Merlin he gets on my nerves._

_So in answer to your inevitable question, yes, father is back from France. Awfully sunburnt as well, mind you. He must have made a quick trip down to L'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue to visit Zambini's father, because everyone knows that Sir P would never choose to live somewhere even mildly uplifting, and La Maison d'Avranches is fucking dull at the best of times._

_Father is back, and as usual, he was exceedingly tardy. Mother is still giving him those 'so help me god I will skin you alive' looks at the moment, not only because Father has serious timing issues, but because of the company he has returned with. Merlin help us (mother and I, of course, Father brought this on himself so there's no sympathy for him), I wish they would never leave that godforsaken country. I equally wish Father would just lock Sir Peacock up with some nutty house elves and his psychotic birds._

_As it turns out, however, Malfoys are supposed to revel in each other's company, so I've been locked down with them, and I'm beginning to lose my marbles. I think that's probably self-evident, because when else would I ever be bothered to write you a letter over twenty words? Not to mention that this was intended to simply ask for a brotherly favour._

_Akin to my demise into insanity, I think Mother is on the verge of murder, and Father is equally as likely to have a nervous breakdown. Not because Mother is edging closer to seriously casting an AK, but because Sir Peacock won't stop pestering me, and Father is far too pessimistic (albeit, in this case realistic), to believe that anything good will come of his father's presence._

_Sir Peacock has been eyeing me very closely, and has managed to pick out sixty-four different things to disapprove of already in the six hours he has been here. No fear, I have noted them all down for you, so you can constantly bruise my ego in his absence when we get back to Hogwarts. I knew you'd want to be informed of my failings._

_If his general disenchantment with me is not enough, Sir Peacock is also in an absolutely foul mood, and is definitely not having one of his good days. He never seems to have good days here, actually. It's a fucking wonder why he continues to return to England. I hope it's not to visit me, because I think I've made it exceedingly plain that I do __not__ wish to see him. The only person who actually seems to enjoy Sir P's little visits is Great-Grandfather Abraxas, and he's a bloody portrait._

_Anyway, Sir P has just finished berating father, which is a nice change from his usual subject (yours truly, if it had escaped your notice). Apparently you're never too old for a good telling off, unless you're Sir Peacock, who is bloody ancient. I think I've only ever seen him told off once, and that was by Grandmother; someone equally as ancient. I believe it was for slurping his ox-tail soup at the dinner table, in the pretentious way that he does. Merlin knows nobody is ever going to be able to fix that._

_The reason Father was being berated, and the reason the geriatric prick is in a right foul mood, is because of Father's recent purchase. In a weak moment whilst abroad, Father purchased, and brought home, two Irish wolfhound puppies. I think they were supposed to soften the blow of Sir Peacock and Grandmother's unexplained visit, but really, they've created a great deal of chaos in the day that they've been here._

_For one, they actually __ate__ a peacock. Well, by ate I mean definitely killed, and ruffled a fair few other feathers._

_Sir Peacock is absolutely incensed with Father. The thought of one of his precious treasures being mauled by a natural predator is obviously very distressing. Possibly more distressing than Father's death (which is fast approaching given Mother's mood), and definitely more than mine._

_Last year, when one of his bloody birds attacked __me__, he simply shrugged it off (as much as Sir P __can__ shrug; I don't believe he has ever physically shrugged in his life), and told Mother to stop mollycoddling me. However, as soon as one of his pets gets the bite it truly deserves, he practically sheds tears over its metaphorical grave. (We couldn't give it a real grave, of course, because certain puppies would probably dig it up again, and wouldn't that just be __lovely__)._

_After that incident I got a berating from Father for upsetting Sir P even further, because I suggested that the house elves slow poach the dead bird for dinner. Sir P retorted with something that I can't exactly recall (awfully sorry but I find his waffling boring as __shit)__ to which I replied: 'You sir, are an incredible moron.'_

_I know, not exactly original. A bit of cussing probably would have driven it home, but I think Grandmother would have dropped dead from a heart aneurism if I did something so outrageous. However it was enough to get the idiot really fired up, and he started off again about my disrespect and 'inability to appreciate the great heritage of Brutus Malfoy' etcetera, etcetera. He is fucking dull, I tell you._

_Anyway, so then Father tracked me down, (when he finally managed to get away from Sir P), to tell me that I was 'far too audacious' and immature, and needed to attempt to stay out of Old P's way. To which I replied that Old P is far too melodramatic and disruptive to ever __not__ be in my way. Which is a truism, actually. Sir P is always in __someone's __hair._

_Unfortunately, during that speech I accidently called him 'Sir P' to Father, and Father launched into another maturity tirade. Sometimes he and Sir P are scarily alike. Although, I could clearly see that Father was having a hard time keeping a smirk of his face. After all, 'Sir Peacock' is a pretty ingenious nickname. I think he is simply scared that one day he'll call dear Lucius 'Sir Peacock' to his face, on accident. I know I will, only, it definitely will be on purpose._

_And that, my friend, is the complete story of why I need you to owl me those robes, because the only way I envision staying out of the old berk's hair is to either disappear indefinitely, or stay off the ground. In return for your kindness, I promise to repay the favour by letting you floo in unexpectedly one day and annoy the shit out of Father. Also, you may see the puppies – they're bloody fantastic, and not just because they've slayed a peacock._

_How's your old man hip going, by the way? I heard your mother saying she was going to cart you off to St. Mungo's soon, although it's probably going to be for hypochondria rather than a __real__ problem. _

_Just joking. Please send me those robes._

_Please._

_I'll send you some lemon slice. Or one of Salazar's heirlooms. Or something filled with dark magic to piss off Auror Potter. Or would you like Sir P himself?_

_File this under __eternal gratitude__,_

_S._

~.~

**Excerpt from Medical Report from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries – Filed under Albus Severus Potter – 01 August 2022.**

'…

General Observations - History

(See report filed 25th May 2022). Patient was admitted to the clinic (on leave from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry) with symptoms of a spinal or muscular related injury in the lower back. Initial symptoms were some minor, localised swelling which was both unresponsive to simple anti-inflammatory charms and painful to touch.

Patient reported stiffness in the area, especially in the morning hours, which often obstructed normal, day to day activities. Patient also reported the swelling being sensitive to both heat and cold, although icing the area seemed to have little effect and often served to aggravate the pain.

Upon primary visit to St. Mungo's, regarding the same injury (see report filed 25th May 2022), patient was administered with moderate anti-inflammatory and muscle relaxant charms (grade 2), and advised to see a muscular trainer, to ease tension in the lower back.

(See report filed 22nd June 2022). Patient readmitted to the clinic with similar symptoms that seemed to have stayed consistent, or worsened slightly since previous visit. Initial symptoms were still present, and patient also complained of minor but persistent headaches and fatigue throughout the day.

Neurological symptoms were deemed more likely attributable to other mitigating factors, such as stress or a recently acquired Quidditch injury, and were soothed by a Calming Draught.

The initial injury was harder to appease, however. Anti-inflammatory and soothing spells and draughts seemed to be nullified by the discomfort the patient was experiencing. A wandless examination proved to be too painful for the patient to reasonably bear, and he was unable to describe the different levels of discomfort felt in different spinal regions. Swelling appears to have spread from the initial location, and is far less localised.

Further muscular and spinal testing was advised.

(See report filed 25th July 2022). Patient testing was administered. Wand-administered testing and picturing of the affected areas failed to display abnormalities in muscular function. General stiffness was noted; however the source of such stiffness appeared not to be attributable to muscular deformities.

A build-up of unknown bodily material was discovered in the final, bone testing. The swelling appears under these conditions, showing a clump of unidentified bodily fluid or other mass resting over the L2 and L3 vertebrae.

A stasis spell was performed and patient was anesthetised to remove parts of the lump, which was then sent away for testing.

Visual signs of the lump were a hard and firm knot. Appearance resembled bone or thick, scar tissue under the skin.

Patient was in relatively severe discomfort and was hospitalised for the night, in order to monitor physical symptoms. Calming Draughts were administered periodically during the night.

General Diagnosis

After further testing carried out by the potions lab staff and other pathology staff, the tissue was returned to the General Ward.

Initial pathological testing suggests that the unidentified lump is uncharacteristic to wizarding people and that the current medical technology used by the hospital is unable to identify the genus or characteristics of the foreign tissue. It is, however, deemed possible that the lump is malignant, as seen in a small sample of wizards who have then gone on to be treated by Muggle methods.

Unidentified lumps of tissue in humans are known to St. Mungo's to be unfortunately common in Muggle people. It occurs currently, often without warning, and is potentially fatal. It is known to the hospital that this diagnosis is often aligned with the growth of malignant cells in the body of the patient, which then go on to destroy and seriously maim other body parts and functions if not treated effectively.

Since this kind of medical phenomena has only been shown to affect a handful of wizards, St. Mungo's regretfully, does not have the resources to fund a department to adequately test and deal with wizards showing symptoms of this disease. It is thought that due to the slightly different cell structure carried by wizarding peoples, this disease is relatively uncommon.

It has been noted, however, that signs of malignant lumps in wizarding people are overwhelmingly serious. It is considered essential that symptoms be treated as soon as the lump is diagnosed, through a Muggle facility. For some reason, wizards who display signs of malignant tumours often find the disease progresses more aggressively and rapidly, compared with similar symptoms in Muggles. Again, it is unknown why this is so, at this time.

It is therefore essential, that given this particular patient's symptoms, he be admitted to biopsy testing at a Muggle facility immediately. The growth may be malignant or benign; however the effective diagnosis of the unknown tissue is essential to a more positive prognosis.

…'

~.~

**Excerpt from Medical Report: Coleridge Hospital, Devon. Filed under Albus Severus Potter – 15****th**** August 2022.**

'…

Diagnosis

Biopsy and physical testing have displayed symptoms of a relatively advanced tumour, located over and between the L2 and L3 vertebrae in the patient's back.

Further Positron Emission Tomography scans indicated that although there are currently no other unidentified growths in other areas of the patient's body, the tumour is expanding at a rapid rate.

Given the results from the various testing methods, the tumour is currently being treated as a high grade form of Osteosarcoma, located on the spine. This is an extraordinarily rare location for an Osteosarcoma growth, especially in children, where growths this large are usually located in the legs or pelvis.

The grade of the tumour was assessed by staging. It was established that:

The tumour has grown beyond its compartment of origin, by disrupting and growing into the soft tissue surrounding the middle lumbar vertebrae, although metastasis has not yet occurred.

Malignant stromal cells appeared from the biopsy testing. The woven bone indicated the presence of Osteosarcoma.

Current prognosis rates for children with Osteosarcoma are relatively good. However, it must be noted that incidences of Osteosarcoma in the spine are rare, and are generally less positive than those in the legs or pelvis.

It is suggested that given the often aggressive nature of Spinal Osteosarcoma, the most aggressive therapies are both necessary and justified. These therapies must begin immediately with the patient's consent, to avoid a worsening prognosis.

Suggested Treatment

Primary surgery will be given as soon as the patient's consent is obtained. This surgery will attempt to remove all signs of the tumour, without disrupting the spine or the spinal cord. Some area of cell tissue around the affected lump will also be removed for more testing.

After surgery, the necessity for further treatment will be assessed. If cell testing of the surrounding cells is clear, and there are limited signs of spreading, the patient will be subjected to further non-invasive testing methods to determine any other spots where the disease may have spread.

Often, if surgery manages to remove all of the noticeable malignant growth, the patient has an overwhelmingly positive prognosis, and may not require any further treatment.

However, considering the high grade of the growth, further treatment may be necessary, and surgery may not remove all of the malignant cells present in the patient's body. To prevent the spread of these cells, a combination of therapies may be used to destroy them.

The use of these therapies will be determined after the initial surgery and subsequent testing. Often, chemotherapy is used; however a combination of both radio and chemotherapies can be most effective in removing cancerous growths.

Often in patients with persistent Osteosarcomas which cannot be removed by multiple surgeries, complete amputation of the limb is performed to prevent the spreading of malignant cells to organs or other bones. In this case, amputation is not an option, considering the location of the tumour. It therefore, may be necessary for therapies to be aggressive in dealing with the growths, if they cannot be completely removed by primary surgery.

…'

~.~

**Scorpius H. Malfoy to Albus S. Potter – 17****th**** August 2022**

_A,_

_Talk to me. Or write to me. It's not quite the same, but it's something._

_After your letter a few days ago, I've just bombarded you with owls. I know it could be considered slightly annoying, but you're __slightly__ rude for ignoring them, and then you went and – _

_Forget it. It's probably justified anyway._

_The thing is, I just don't know what to __say__, Al. Which is quite ironic because I haven't been able to shut up, have I? I just want to __know__ what's going on, buddy. Not because I'm obsessed with your misfortunes, but because knowledge is power and all that other Ravenclaw crap that Rose would just love._

_Truth be told mate, I'm scared as shit. Which probably has nothing on what you're thinking, I know. _

_I just wanted to let you know that I'm never going to stop bombarding you with owls, even at Hogwarts. I'll make the precarious trip up the owlery steps every, single, bloody day, even in winter to send you something, even though most people will begin to question my sexuality. I swear on Saint Peacock's grave._

_(Although I only wish he was six feet under - horrible, I know.)_

_It's not going to be the same without you, Al. It's all wrong to think that I'm going back to see all our least favourite professors alone. Facing Professor Bloomberg on my own is nothing less than terrifying, you know how rubbish I am at Defence._

_I know you'd say I'm a sap, but I'll really miss you, Al. You have to keep telling me how things are going, won't you? You know I'm hopeless with all that Muggle terminology, so you might have to include copious definitions every sentence, but I'll try my best._

_I don't even care if you send me one line, just reply, will you? I'm bloody worried about you, and you're not helping my anxiety._

_File this under __reply, you idiot__,_

_S._

~.~

**Lily L. Potter to Katie L. Williamson – posted in the Muggle fashion, from Hogesmeade – December 01 2022**

_Katie,_

_I know you'll be royally pissed off by my lack of replies, but I promise, this school doesn't allow postage daily, so sometimes I can't help but be a bit sporadic with my letter writing. I know you'd say something about the school being archaic and abusive, but believe me; it's just a little strict._

_Speaking of school, it's in the bloody Scottish Highlands, so don't go off about not being able to text message me; I don't even have a phone, remember? I'm sorry you despise letter writing so much, but just because you managed to break an acrylic on your pencil does not mean I'll be shouting you a new set next summer. I'm too poor for that, and you know it. Boarding school is an absolute bitch for getting a part-time job._

_Anyway, tell me about your school term. Mine's absolutely rubbish, if you were wondering._

_My brother's sick, so he's at home in Devon (where you __have__ to stay next summer, else I'll go absolutely insane again), so I'm here by myself. I mean, James is here, but he's off in his own sport induced world, and Rose and Scorpius are too obsessed with their diploma programs. _

_By the way, Scorpius says you're nuts for stealing his cloak, and he would very much like it back next summer. I know you think he's somewhat of an oddity, due to the clothes he likes to wear, but he seems to think you're in love with him, hence, please stop stealing his clothes, so his ego doesn't get too big to fit inside the bloody school grounds._

_Speaking of boys; Luke sounds…nice? _

_Stop laughing; you know I'm incompetent at adequately describing males! I'm not at all…worldly? No wait, I think I just made you sound like a slag, hahaha!_

_But seriously, James said something about sex the other day and I __blushed__. It wasn't even __to __me, which (god!) would have been weird if it was, but just hearing my older brother talk about it, made me get all disgusted, and then I realised – I'm a bloody prude. _

_I, Lily Luna, am a prude. Scorpius has been saying it all along, and James has been punching the shit out of him because apparently little sisters are supposed to be prudes, but __oh my god__, what is wrong with me? I realised last night that one hundred percent of the girls in my dorm (save me, the unplucked flower), have at least snogged someone. Apparently you were right about rampant teenage sex in boarding schools. Give me a break, I'm only fourteen!_

_You have to teach me how to be normal, when you come back to Devon next summer. I'm not talking about bloody snogging you, (because I know that's exactly the insinuation you would have taken from that sentence) but I need some advice. What the hell am I doing? It's not like I'm a dedicated student or a professor, so I actually have no excuse not to be, I don't __know__, enjoying a snog in a broom closet every now and then, do I?_

_Lord, listen to me. I swear I don't usually sound this desperate. I probably shouldn't post this, for my pride's sake._

_Reply please, so I don't feel like you hate me for being so weird._

_Yours,_

_xxLily_

_~.~_

**A (Not So Secret) Secret Santa Card – Harriet V. Smith to James S. Potter – 19****th**** December 2022**

_James,_

_I was your secret Santa. Put on your best surprised face, please. For Bloomberg's sake if nothing else, because we could all use a bit of Christmas cheer from the world's strictest professor, especially in our final, bloody year._

_So, I have to admit that I never thought you were the academic type. Not that being academic is a bad thing, or that I ever thought you were thick, but you know, being Gryffindor's Quidditch hero and all I didn't think you'd ever have time to appreciate the smaller things in life. When I heard you expressing interest in Salinger, Le Carr__é__ and Stoker I thought perhaps you were simply trying to charm the socks off some poor girl, but then again, you've hardly been on your game this year at all._

_In the case that I was wrong to believe you were sincere in your interest, simply dispose of the present, or alternatively memorise some Shakespeare to build your newfound sensitive-new-age-male image. If, however, you actually do enjoy some of the Muggle classics, I find Orwell is my favourite, and would love to hear what you think of it._

_Forgive me, I feel like I should include some rabid fan-girl writing in here about your Quidditch prowess to retain your interest, but I find you too intriguing for that, James. Sort of strange, if it's okay to say so._

_Merry Christmas, I hope you enjoy Orwell. _

_Harriet._

_~.~_

**Albus S. Potter to Rose A. Weasley – 24****th**** February 2023**

_Rosie,_

_I know you want to hear about surgery and treatment and the bloody, unstoppable C word, but I can't really be __fucked__ with it right now. I just want to get other things out there, because there's really no one else who can bloody listen. _

_Apologies for ruining your day single-handedly in advance, because I know depressing tales from your incapacitated little cousin can be a real drain. Really, I do._

_There's nothing left of me, Rosie. I swear. Not only physically am I skin and fucking bone, but there's nothing left in my brain either. I feel like this illness has tipped me upside down, opened up my brain and emptied all the thoughts and memories and emotions out of me. I can't __feel__, Rosie. I may as well be buried beneath the ground now. I'm just __not me._

_I'm a shell of a person, encased in a fragile bone structure which is eroding itself from inside out. I don't have a will anymore, or a life. I live inside, like an unwilling hermit, alone. I'm beginning to go mad with just my bloody owl, and my parchment and ink._

_And you're going to go mad, as the only person I can write to. It's really a pity I was never an avid reader or a good drawer, or perhaps I could have made something from myself in these last, few months._

_I think I'm losing my magic as well. Not losing it, but losing control of it, because I can't practise it here. The letters came back from the Ministry the other day – unsuccessful unfortunately. No exceptions for terminally ill children, apparently. I told you they have no heart; you're really too optimistic for your own good._

_Mum and Dad are going at it again, by the way. I'm bad for them, lying here, hopeless. I used to think they were perfect, you know? Like, one of those couples that truly never stopped being sickeningly in love, which are forever embarrassing their children and really grow old together. _

_Dad wants Mum to quit managing the Harpies because I need more constant care, and I know she'll go mental if she's cooped in here all day with me._

_Mum wants Dad to quit work at the Ministry because it's too dangerous and then perhaps, with a desk job, he could help her care for me. But everyone in this fucked-up world knows Dad has too much of a 'Save the Whole World' complex to ever sit down and file papers. _

_The main problem here, that they miss, is that I need caring for. If I wasn't diseased, neither of them would have to quit, or even compromise, and everyone would be happy. Do you know how that __feels__ Rosie? Being the reason? Neither do I, because I'm always numb, __all __the time._

_And what about Scorpius, Rosie? How is he? His girlfriend? Is he enjoying his goddamn time at school? I fucking hope so._

_I'm yet to receive a __single__, bloody letter. Yes, it hurts. Am I really forgotten?_

_Onto what you really wrote for:_

_(I know you Rosie, 'knowledge is power' and all that.)_

_Secondary surgery was not entirely successful. I mean, it was, for a week, and then when I returned for scans, it showed more hot-spots up my C2 and 3's. So I've got rid of it from my lumber spine, and then it shows up further towards my brain. Fucking impossible._

_So I'm doing another round of radiation and a bit of chemotherapy as well. Radiation is just as bad as it always was; tiring and tedious. More tattoos. I wish I could get a snake or a dragon or something instead of stupid dots._

_Chemotherapy gets me to feel. Shit, it hurts Rosie, no matter the amount of spells St. Mungo's has my aid administer. It burns you from the inside out, like your veins are on fire or something – like when that stupid character in your book got transformed into a vampire. Except unlike that stupid girl, when you finish the transfer of poison into your veins, you vomit up everything you've consumed in days, and then have to sleep it all off in time for your next session. It's hopeless. I walk in there for a round, and then Dad has to carry me out. Or my aid. Or whoever else is available to pick me up. _

_So far, the aggressive treatment plan is… less than adequate. It's not responded properly to the three different combinations they've administered, so far. It's not receding either. It's kind of like being stuck in a fiery, tiring, limbo._

_You know what I thought the other day, Rosie. These drugs could kill me. Essentially, they are killing me. Chemotherapy can't really target the exact malignant cells, so it just kills every cell it can find to get rid of the disease. It's effective, only, it kills you in the process._

_What if I die, Rosie? Would everyone be better off? I promise I'm not trying to be suicidal. I want to know, what would happen?_

_Would I be buried? Would you cry? Would Mum have another kid?_

_I wish I could see the future. Are you decent at divination?_

_I'm sort of scared of dying, truth be told. It's a great big unknown, where magic can't save you. And yet, I am dying. How do you ever be __okay__ with that?_

_I need to see you again, so you can answer all my questions with your insane amount of research._

_All my love,_

_Albus._

_~.~_

**Personal Report to Albus S. Potter from Coleridge Medical Centre, Devon – 28****th**** April 2023**

Dear Mr. Potter,

Our records show that you have recently shown interest in ceasing chemotherapy and radiation treatments for your ongoing diagnosis of Spinal Osteosarcoma. The information following this introduction is meant as a guide only, and a consultation with your Oncologist and General Medical Practitioner is advised before any decisions pertaining to treatment are made.

…

The Decision to Cease Treatment

The decision to cease treatment for diseases which come under the vast umbrella of cancer is not an easy choice. It should be made with the upmost care and thought, preferably made with the advice of a general practitioner, oncologist and other relevant specialists. Given that the most effective, proven treatments are ones offered by hospitalisation and inpatient-outpatient schemes, ceasing one or all hospital treatments for cancer is highly likely to result in the spread of cancer and eventual fatality of the patient.

Thus, it is important for the patient to keep the likely outcomes of ceasing treatment in the forefront of their minds, given the potentially dire consequences. It might also be important to consult family and friends, and take into consideration their opinion, although this is not strictly necessary.

As the patient, you may feel that the efforts to decrease the cancerous cells in your body are futile or fruitless, or you are simply sick of the side effects which accompany both chemo and radio therapies. However, it is important to keep a clear head when weighing up the positives and negatives of ceasing or continuing cancer treatment.

There are a number of different drug combinations and treatment plans available, which you may want to discuss with your oncologist and other specialist practitioner, should you feel your current treatment plan is not working. Doctors and specialists will also be able to confer with you the actual physical affectivity of the drugs in your body, and make use of the current medical technology to assess your individual prognosis.

At Coleridge, you should feel confident that your doctor will give you their honest and informed opinion on your individual prognosis, and the ways in which they are able to treat your specific malady. It is heavily advised that patients take the expert advice of a specialist into consideration when deciding to cease treatment.

…'

~.~

**James S. Potter to Harry J. Potter – 02 June 2023**

_Dad,_

_Albus wrote to me, saying he's going to cease treatment. This is a huge, fucking joke isn't it?_

_He's a __kid__, Dad. Bloody hell, he's only seventeen years old. Not even legal to make those sorts of decisions in the Muggle world. You can't seriously be letting him do this to himself, its __suicide__._

_You aren't telling me that you're going to let your own child kill himself? Just because it's wrapped up a little nicer than jumping from the Astronomy Tower, doesn't make it okay in the slightest. Have you forgotten he's my brother? Lily's brother? You might have given up hope, but you have to realise that this is about more than just __you__._

_Can't you see that he's depressed? He had some hope in his prognosis – wasn't it fifteen percent? That's fifteen times out of a hundred he might have lived, Dad. You can't give up now, he's come so far, and the only way he's going to keep going is if we make him. We have to make him, because otherwise he'll __die__, Dad. You can't let him die. He doesn't even understand death yet._

_Am I seriously the only one who sees the consequences of this? He's barely even __lived._

_I wish to return home immediately._

_James._

_~.~_

**Scorpius H. Malfoy to Albus S. Potter – 21****st**** June 2023**

_A,_

_I'll see you in three days._

_S._


	2. Chapter 1

**Important A/N:** I accidentally deleted the draft of the Prologue from my computer, so I can't correct anything in it. I know, I'm a complete idiot. In the prologue, it states that Albus is 17. This is incorrect. His birthday, for the purposes of this story is 28/08. Therefore, Albus is still 16. Sorry about the confusion but unfortunately I can't change the prologue!

Secondly, I am, for the purposes of this chapter, writing alone. Lola has decided to stop writing fanfiction for the time being. Hopefully I should have a new co-author soon!

A million thanks to **musefan929** (Mia), for making this story readable. Go check her out!

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><p>Sighing to himself and leaning against one of the solid walls, Harry closed his eyes and tried to block out the hustle and bustle around him. What he wanted, more dearly than anything today, was to get out of the station without anyone recognising him, shaking his hand, or trying to make small talk. He wanted to collect the bunch of teenagers, shove them into the back of his Range Rover and speed the three hour, twenty minute drive to Ottery Saint Mary, avoiding any argument or awkward questions.<p>

He had, on that note, hoped that James would be keen to try out apparition outside of school, now that he was seventeen. It had been a terse and pointed set of letters between James and his mother particularly, which caused Harry more distress than anything else. Trying not to get involved in it was particularly difficult considering James' persistent belief that Harry was in control of Albus' decisions. That being said, Harry would rather face off against several angry chimeras than be caught between his headstrong and loyal eldest son, and his protective, yet deeply depressed wife.

The thought of work brought back a whole other mental list of things to do into Harry's mind. Paperwork for Monday, an order for new Auror robes for the recently inducted recruits and a new coffee mug for Patrice, which he had clumsily broken three days prior. The altercation with his often moody and frequently bossy secretary had moved the new mug to the top of Harry's list. In all honesty, Patrice frightened him.

He sighed again, wishing he could sink back into the wall and forget life's persistent demands. The clock above the wall had other ideas. Chiming once, it marked the arrival of the bright red train which slowly chugged into the station, exactly on time.

~.~

Rose was the first to find Harry, who had strategically placed himself near the rear of the train to avoid being seen by as many people as possible. It was slightly amusing, Harry thought, that his niece was able to find him quicker than his two children, one of which was surely double her height and had somehow escaped inheriting Harry's terrible vision.

"Tired, Uncle Harry?" she said, peeking up at him from a curtain of thick, red hair. Tired and hassled as he may have felt, Harry found the smile that crept up on his face at the sight of his niece was undeniably genuine.

"Hey Rosie, how are you?"

"Not bad," she smiled back at him, polite as ever. Harry made a mental note to ask Hermione about her seemingly flawless parenting skills. The manners that Rose and Hugo managed to radiate were definitely not from Ron's influence.

"How have you managed to find me before James and Lily?" Harry asked, searching around over the heads of the various children for his own.

"James is saying goodbye to someone I think…" Rose trailed off, spinning around to look as well, trying her hardest to balance on her tip-toes. Even for a sixth year, she was relatively petite. Hugo had inherited his father's height instead.

As he was searching for his wayward son, something bounced up behind Rose and cannonballed into Harry.

"Hi Dad," Lily muffled into his chest, as Harry bent his head down to kiss her forehead. Lily had always been the most affectionate of his children, and thankfully, hadn't yet reached the age when all young witches irrationally despise their parents. He made a mental note to ask her about everything that the bunch of Weasleys and Potters had gotten up to in the castle that year, because he could always rely on her to fill him in truthfully.

"Hey Lil," Harry smiled into his daughter's strawberry blonde hair, "I missed you."

"Dad, don't be such a sop! It's embarrassing!" Lily exclaimed, grinning up at him, as she turned around to Rose and Hugo, the latter of whom had just managed to locate the small group.

"Did someone locate Scorpius?" she asked, running a concerned eye over Hugo, who was out of breath and looked as if he had just run a marathon.

"Sorry," Hugo began, taking a moment to catch his breath back, "Arnaud Avery stole my Nimbus again and I had to sock him in the face to get it back."

"Sorry. What?" Harry asked, both of his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. He took back the comment about Rose and Hugo's perfect manners. Perhaps Hermione had taught them how to throw a mean left hook as well.

Not realising the presence of his Uncle, Hugo turned a deep crimson colour and muttered something about a joke. The newest arrival to the group, however, made Harry almost forget about the punching scandal. It was too ironic that a Malfoy should show up just as Harry was reminiscing about Hermione's punching prowess. Stepping confidently into the middle of the clan, the tall, thin and angular young adult (with a perfectly tailored suit, nonetheless), stuck his hand out unreservedly, which Harry shook.

"Hello Mr. Potter. Scorpius Malfoy, pleasure to meet you," the blonde haired teen said with a smile. If it was not for his Auror training, Harry would have been convinced that the newest addition to the Malfoy family wasn't the least bit intimidated by him.

"Harry, please," he replied, fixing a slightly forced smile on his face.

Harry was perplexed as how best to deal with this Malfoy. It would be difficult he realised, to completely forget about his preconceived ideas about how the offspring of certain pureblood families behaved. This one, to Harry's great surprise, seemed relatively normal. But then again, he doubted whether Albus would have befriended someone who wasn't at the very least, considerate. He further doubted that his wife would have allowed any Malfoy who exhibited Lucius or Draco-like tendencies into her house. After all, Scorpius had stayed for four nights last summer, although Harry had been in Glasgow at the time.

He noted that Scorpius had joined in the budding conversation between Rose and Hugo, presumably involving Arnaud Avery and the Nimbus incident, and wondered what Hermione would make of a Malfoy befriending her children. On second thoughts, he reasoned, she probably wouldn't have made anything of it. Hermione was possibly the least prejudicial person that Harry had ever known.

"Took me a bloody long time to find you," a familiar voice snapped, and Harry's eyes locked onto the tall, seventeen-year-old that was the last to arrive. "What are you doing all the way back here?"

"Could have found us sooner if you hadn't spent so long chatting up Harriet Smith," Lily muttered under her breath, and looked away purposefully as James fixed an angry glare in her direction.

"Let's just go," he grumbled sourly. "I hoped you managed to park within a kilometre of the station this time."

~.~

Albus Potter sat on his bed, swinging his legs over the side nervously. It had been three hundred and thirty-one days since he'd seen his best friend, Scorpius. It had been two hundred and ninety-six since he'd seen his brother, sister or his closest cousins. It had been only five minutes since he last saw one of his parents. Not that he was counting or anything.

When he thought about it, Albus could not recall being so nervous to interact with other people. The fluttering in his chest and his constant fidgeting only exacerbated the feeling that he may have forgotten how to. Over the past ten months, he had been locked in the same four walls, or been transported in the same car to the same two hospitals. Due to his severely weakened immune system, killed off by multiple rounds of chemical treatment, he was restricted to indoor activities only for the last five months. He had never felt less like himself.

On the other hand, he reasoned, a year's worth of schooling could do a lot to someone, and he really hoped that everyone wouldn't come back from the train completely different than when they left. If he was honest with himself, Albus was insanely jealous that they had all had the chance to change if they had wanted to while he had been confined to his prison inmate-like existence. Wasting away from the inside out.

He swallowed hard at the thought that his best friend and his cousin had learned and practised far more complex magic than he was ever going to learn. They were far better at his favourite subject – defence, far better at duelling, and far better at guessing what the stupid tea leaves at the bottom of a tea cup meant. At the start, Albus hadn't even tried to quell his insatiable jealousy. Before Hogwarts had even begun again for another year, he loathed to see the preparations that everyone else was doing, knowing that he couldn't return. Now, it was just a sad memory; a long lost dream that he clung to but could never relive.

Albus had snapped his beautiful hawthorn and phoenix feather wand six weeks ago.

It had been six weeks since Albus had come to the realisation that he would never practise magic again. Six weeks since he had brought himself before that awful truth; following a ministry decision that no exceptions could be made to the Decree for the Use of Underage Sorcery. Six weeks since Albus had decided to cease treatment for the awful growth inside him. Six weeks since he succumbed to the knowledge that his choice meant he would never return to Hogwarts.

Six weeks, since he realised he would face the last few months of his life this coming summer.

The two halves of perfect, tan wood lay cradled on his bedside table by a mountain of letters and tissues. It had initially felt good to snap it, Albus decided, as he stared at it. Now, it just felt like a vital part of him was missing. A vital part inside him wasn't there, or was broken, which was all too ironic considering his predicament.

He leaned over and scooped up the tissues, throwing them hastily into the wastepaper. If he was really going to spend his last summer feeling depressed and desolate, he may as well already be dead. Plus, he would have felt stupid if Scorpius saw the mound of pitiful paper which had tear tracks all over it. It was a bit ridiculous, considering that really, Albus knew he had a lot to be sad about, but he covered the tissues in the bin with a piece of paper anyway.

Deciding to pick himself up and get ready for the arrival of his family and friend, Albus stalked into the bathroom opposite his bedroom. It took him almost twice as long to make the short distance as it had ten months ago. Ten months ago, he could have jumped the whole way, with a leg locker curse, quicker than he could currently. His back and neck ached when he walked these days, and he lacked the vital energy he used to take completely for granted.

Still, he was making the distance much easier than he ever had while in treatment. It still embarrassed him to think that nine times out of ten, he wouldn't have even have made it to the bathroom when he felt nauseous. His mother had resigned to leaving several empty buckets by his bed, which she would dutifully pick up and _scrougify_, when they were used. Not being able to even cope with the effects of his sickness had probably scarred Albus more mentally than physically. He lived a sort of half-life, as he physically grew more dependent on his parents.

Nowadays, he was still fragile and far too thin, but he wasn't as weak or sickly. His body was far from healthy, but in a way it was thriving without the effects of the poison that had been intravenously fed into him.

It was always, however, a bit of a shock to see himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. He avoided looking into mirrors wherever possible, because all he saw was a pale boy that was a shadow of his former self. In reality, he had looked this way for almost seven months, although he liked to pretend he did not. Somehow, it seemed like if he didn't catch his reflection in anything, he could still be that same, healthy teenager. But now, standing in front of the mirror in the harsh lights of the bathroom, he sighed and began to study his body properly.

His jeans, which used to be fitted against his skin, hung so loose on his waist and thighs that they may as well have been tracksuit pants. Rolling them up, he studied his legs. Stubby black hairs had begun to push through on them, resilient even after months of treatment which had essentially burned them off. The aggressive chemo and radio therapies had rendered his body completely hairless, save for his eyebrows and eyelashes, which were a small, albeit important, concession. His legs, however, had thus far been the only area where hair was beginning to regrow.

Aside from the hair, his legs, like his arms and abdomen, were pale almost to the point of translucency. The skin on his hips, knees and elbows was stretched thin over his bones, which poked out at awkward angles and made his appearance sallow. His stomach, he thought as he lifted his grey t-shirt up, looked concave owing to the loss of his abdominal muscles. His ribs, like the rest of his bones, were barely concealed. Running a finger between the cracks of his lower ribcage made him feel nauseous and he lunged for the toilet.

"Al?" He heard his mother call from downstairs. She was all too accustomed to the sound of him emptying his stomach.

"Just residual mum," he replied, wiping his mouth with a piece of toilet paper, flushing it, and then making a beeline for his toothbrush.

The treatment had also left him with a very weak stomach, he thought, rolling his jeans down with one hand while brushing his teeth with the other. But sickness at the sight of his body could always be palmed off as the after effects of such intense chemical treatment. Albus' body no longer knew how to hold it in anymore.

It was so used to purging itself of anything that Albus could barely hold down any meals. Anything except plain carbohydrates or sugars tended to make him feel nauseous, and then it would all just come back again. Dairy was definitely off the list, as was most meats. Chicken for some reason was the worst, and even the thought of it made his stomach swirl uncomfortably.

Placing his toothbrush back on the side of the basin, he ran a hand over his bald scalp. He wondered what Scorpius would think of his lack of hair, or his body, which had degraded so much it made him look like an eleven-year-old again. He hoped that his best friend wouldn't be scared enough to immediately want to return to Wiltshire.

At least his eyelashes and eyebrows still made him look human, Albus thought. Without them, he envisioned his appearance to be somewhat similar to that of the weird, alien creature on one of those muggle movies Uncle Ron made them watch every Christmas. Every Christmas except the last, he noted, when he was too busy being shuttled off between hospitals that Lily and James had to stay at school for Christmas, and Rose and Hugo had offered to stay with them.

Scorpius had elected to stay at school for the holidays too, much to Albus' dismay. Rose had written to tell him that Scorpius had been in some kind of altercation with a fellow Slytherin girl, but wouldn't tell Albus who it was. The word altercation suspiciously made it sound like Scorpius had taken to abusing women within Hogwarts. What Rose had meant by that, Albus couldn't say, but it worried him to think that perhaps Scorpius had become involved with someone new. Albus' heart simultaneously fell and raged with that letter. It was so unfair, that Scorpius would forget about his sick and lonely best friend, for some _girl_ he had never even mentioned liking before.

Feeling more anxious and downhearted when he left the bathroom, Albus dragged himself back to bed, and sat, staring at the opposite wall. Checking the muggle watch his father bought him for his eleventh birthday, he willed time to slow down. He needed more space to think, and prepare. He needed more time to settle his nerves, his fluttering heart, and his swirling stomach.

Unfortunately, life never seemed to smile upon Albus Severus Potter. As the big hand of his watch fell on the half hour, he heard the front door open, and his last summer begun.

~.~

Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was accustomed to finery. That was to say, he was a pureblood, and purebloods tended to frequent the more luxurious manor houses in England (and abroad), irrespective of whether they liked it or not. For as long as he could remember, he had been fed off plates of bone china, with silver cutlery and in a house which was far too big for the two, or occasionally three, occupants it actually served. He had never really wanted for anything that wasn't immediately given to him. New racing brooms, perfect school supplies, the latest robes. The only thing that he did lust for was one of those muggle smartphones, but his father would never allow one in the house.

For lack of a smartphone, however, Scorpius' childhood had included vital survival skills such as: Learning how to spot a fake heirloom from a real one, how to order about house elves (and his much less wealthy peers), and how to give and accept bribes. Scorpius Malfoy, in his opinion, had been born into a long lineage of pureblood, wealthy, pompous, idiots.

To be fair, Scorpius had failed in a lot of his traditional, pureblood training. He had an uncanny knack of annoying his elders, getting into trouble and being terrible at any subject involving the dark arts. He did manage to get accepted into Slytherin, but that had been a close call, and he was fairly sure his father had lost a lot of sleep over the very thought of reporting to Lucius that the most longstanding Malfoy tradition, other than having hair whiter than was humanely possible, had been broken.

In some ways, Lucius seemed as if he would rather have had a blast ended skrewt, or worse, a half-blood, for a grandson. This didn't bother Scorpius. He was fairly sure his grandfather and he had been at odds since the day he was born. The first time Lucius held him, Scorpius had probably bitten him or something. That would make perfect sense, in Scorpius' mind. Secretly, he was fairly sure his father revelled in the fact that his son was nothing like Lucius. In no way did Scorpius blame him – growing up with that crazy berk for a father would have been akin to living with a manticore.

Thankfully, his mother and grandmother were relatively normal. Normal enough, Scorpius supposed, to provide a relatively stable environment. His mother's parents had died in the war, his father was never home, and his grandfather was, as far as Scorpius was concerned, his mortal enemy. He had never really attempted to impress his grandfather, there wasn't much point. Lucius had made it clear his grandson was destined for pureblooded failure, predominately because of his mother's 'bad influence.' Scorpius however, feared to think how he could have ended up had he been forced to live full time with anyone else in his family.

Despite this small semblance of family life that he had already experienced, Scorpius was totally out of his depth when it came to spending a whole summer with what he regarded as a _real_ family. He felt as if, when he had jumped at the chance to spend a summer with his best friend's family, he had almost literally jumped off the deep end. He had absolutely no idea what his function was in a house that was actually felt like a _home_ and no idea how to interact on a daily basis with parents who actually interacted with their children.

It wasn't as if he had never visited before, but spending an entire summer as part of the family, to Scorpius, was completely different. When he'd last visited, all he had to do was say a polite hello to Mrs. Potter every time they passed each other, remember to pass the salt and pepper, and not get on Albus' brother's bad side. In fact, for the few days he had visited last year, Mr. Potter, hadn't even been at home. Scorpius recollected that he travelled a lot on Auror business, and thus, he'd never had the nerve-wracking experience of meeting the man whose name was only known to Scorpius as the easiest way to rile his father.

Being stuck on the threshold of his best friend's house, while numerous cousins and siblings went about doing normal things like greeting their mother for the first time in ten months, raiding the pantry and racing up to see their sickly relative, Scorpius found himself being totally overwhelmed with all this deep thinking that normally, he avoided doing at all costs. A polite wave to Mrs. Potter over the head of her youngest daughter was the most he could manage in those first few minutes of walking into Al's house.

Albus' older brother, who Scorpius had really had very little to do with, had given everyone a withering look, and stalked away, presumably to his room, as soon as they had gotten over the threshold. Albus' younger sister, after a brief hello to her mother, skipped her way up the stairs in search of her younger brother.

Scorpius stood, fixed to the floor, looking up the stairs to the room Lily had just entered. He was, in all honesty, quite nervous about seeing Albus. He'd definitely broken his promises about letter-writing, and he hadn't been able to visit over Christmas that year. He guessed that his best friend was probably not in the best mood with him.

"Alright, Malfoy?" Rose queried, breaking up his pity-party. Her questioning, brown eyes ran over him with the intensity of any normal Ravenclaw.

"Of course," he covered, flashing a smile, "just getting my bearings."

"Well, it's across the entrance hall, up the grand staircase and past the trophy room," Rose instructed, with a small smirk. "This isn't Malfoy Manor dearest Scorpius, we plebs live in houses much more simple to navigate."

"And the drawing room, in-house apothecary and house elves quarters are where?" He baited.

"Down near the dungeons I believe," she replied dryly, "which is where you'll be sleeping of course."

"Excellent. I do love the quiet, mouldy atmosphere of the cells."

"Well, given the amount of letters you've managed to send, Albus might decide to send you to the dog house instead."

"The what?"

"Muggle expression," she said, rolling her eyes in exasperation, "honestly, you purebloods are awfully thick sometimes."

"Better at potions than you," Scorpius muttered childishly, under his breath.

"Better at everything else!" Rose sung, grabbing his hand roughly, and pulling him away from the doormat towards the staircase.

~.~

Albus was midway through being squashed by his little sister's enthusiastic embrace, when Rose and Scorpius had first entered his room. He had gotten but a glimpse of the new arrivals through a thick curtain of strawberry blonde hair, as his fragile body gave way to his sister's strength, which was a testament to his frailness.

"Oops, sorry Al," she yelped, jumping off him like his body radiated fire.

Albus hated feeling so frail and breakable. He wished his body didn't have to collapse under the weakest pressure of an overzealous embrace. He hated the embarrassment from being so incapable of standing his ground, or the apologetic looks that people gave him when their normal, everyday actions couldn't be tolerated by his thin, muscle-less frame.

"Muscles must be just sore from training yesterday," he quipped, trying to keep the mood light and avoid a round of pitiful comments.

Lily smiled ruefully and playfully punched him on the arm. "Have you been taking those supplement potions from Breggins Sports Apothecary? Your definition is incredible."

"You should see my legs," he said with a small smile, "they're almost as ripped as yours."

Haphazardly plonking herself on the fold out bed, Rose grinned mischievously across at him. "I don't know about your leg power Al, but Slytherin could really have used your seeker skills this year; they only managed to lose every game."

"Hey!" the familiar voice piped up, and Albus finally allowed himself to acknowledge the existence of his best friend, turn hopeless letter writer.

Scorpius turned his eyes to Albus, in a silent plea to back up an argument against Slytherin's apparent lack of Quidditch skills. An involuntary smile crept over Albus' face in return.

"Sorry S, I can't help you from here," he responded, snickering lightly at Scorpius' dramatic expression.

Albus internally kicked himself for being such a pushover when it came to his blonde, dorm-mate. He had vowed to be standoffish and sarcastic to Scorpius for at least the first week of summer. The forgetful, pathetic, illiterate and terribly _hilarious_ person who finally, after eleven months, stood before him deserved the iciest of receptions that Albus could muster. For some inexplicable reason, it was just so difficult to be angry at someone who connected with him so well.

That thought, to Albus, sounded suspiciously romantic. He shoved it to the back of his mind and covered it up with a whole bunch of spiteful thoughts of Scorpius' alleged girlfriend, which he was yet to hear about. But then again, those thoughts felt like jealousy in a weird way, so Albus covered them up too.

It was so like _Scorpius_, to be able to have his cake and eat it.

"Well? Albus?" the boy in question addressed him, clearly looking for the answer to a question that he had posed, presumably in relation to Quidditch. Albus, deep in thought about the intricacies of being too attached to his best friend, had clearly missed it.

"Uh…yes?" he replied, wishing he could remember what had been asked of him.

"You seriously think Fletcher is a better seeker than Tompkins?" Scorpius wailed, flailing his arms dramatically. "What have the muggles done with you this past year mate? You're delusional!"

"You're just jealous that Tompkins wasn't sorted into Slytherin, and you got stuck with Fletcher instead," Rose argued, raising her eyebrows.

"I'm not jealous. It was just bad luck that Al couldn't play this year. With him, we wouldn't have needed bloody Fletcher in the first place," Scorpius grumbled, one hand tugging at the back of his blonde hair, which was slightly askew.

"Are you talking about Fletcher?" Hugo asked, his head briefly popping into the room. "Merlin, that kid is awful isn't he? He practically gave the snitch to Samantha Smith and she was Hufflepuff's reserve."

"I should just plead with McGonagall to let me change houses, shouldn't I?" Scorpius moaned, his hair now sticking up in all different directions. "Do you think that's ever been allowed?"

"Good to see you Al," Hugo nodded to his cousin, completely ignoring the Slytherin's dramatics, "I'll be over later if you want to map out the summer gobstones challenge?"

"Of course," Albus replied, grinning because he'd forgotten all about the family tradition, "I want to make it a back to back victory this year."

"You tried that two years ago and I killed you," Rose pointed out. "You can't handle the pressure."

Albus narrowed his eyes playfully, but couldn't bring himself to be offended. His body was full of warm, elation at being surrounded by his relatives and friends after a period of such loneliness. Even Rose, whose thirst for answers often left him more depressed by talking about his illness, left the topic alone, and the distraction left him feeling totally normal for the first time in many months.

"Rosie, I think mum and dad want to see us, for some strange reason," Hugo carried on, over Albus' thoughts, "something about not seeing us for nine months?"

"Does it have to be now?" the red head pouted. "Can't I report to dad about how much better I am than the Slytherins later?"

"Does he want to see my potions marks so we can compare?" Scorpius piped up.

"When I want to give my father a heart aneurism, I promise I'll invite you over to meet him," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"Come on Rosie, what on earth could be wrong with befriending a Malfoy? Too much charm and ravishing looks?"

"Too much ego, I'd suggest," she replied, and with a small wave to Albus, she yelled out some promise of fast return as she was dragged out the door by her much more physically apt, younger brother.

Turning back from smirking at Rose's terrible attempt at resistance, Albus found himself being totally lost for words at how to greet his friend. He wasn't quite sure where they stood, or what Scorpius had even been thinking or doing for the past ten months. It wasn't as if he had received much news from the elusive Slytherin, the only news that had really reached him was through his Ravenclaw cousin.

As it turned out, the awkwardness that Albus feared and anticipated was quickly dissipated purely by Scorpius' natural boisterousness and complete disregard for social niceties. Not two seconds had passed before he flung himself unceremoniously onto the ledge of the bay window, which Albus had used during the year to gaze wistfully, into the outside world.

"So," he began, with a mischievous look written on his face, "I think we have a fair bit of planning to do, don't you?"

"Do we?" Albus countered, lifting an eyebrow, "I hadn't heard _anything_ from you in relation to summer."

It sounded petty coming from his mouth, but Albus didn't really regret the words. It was a snide dig, but surprisingly Scorpius brushed it off nonchalantly, which made Albus all the more frustrated.

"How you wound me, dear Albus," he exclaimed with dramatic flair. "I sent you a letter but three days ago!"

"All six words of it?" The brunette replied, 'you're awfully succinct.'

"Must have lost the rest in the mail," Scorpius remarked, with a faux expression of confusion.

A voice from the corner of the room completely snapped both boys out of their banter. Both of them had completely forgotten about the strawberry blonde who was now stretched out on the ground at the foot of Albus' bed; her face buried in a book borrowed from her brother's muggle crime stash.

"You two are completely hopeless," she sighed, snapping the book shut inches from her nose. "You sound like an old, senile, married couple or something."

"Uh…or something?'' Scorpius replied, shooting Albus a look of disdain.

"_Fine_, I'll give it to you straight then," Lily said dryly, as Albus' widened eyes pleaded with her to _not say another word._ The last thing he needed was for Scorpius to realise that Albus had been pining for him. Well, not pining, just missing. Not even missing, really, just interested in what Scorpius had been doing and not hearing any news.

Definitely no pining.

"Dear Albus," she began, imitating Scorpius' voice and writing imaginary letters with her right hand, "I'm sorry that I didn't bother writing a single letter to you the whole ten months I was away-"

"I really don't sound _a thing_ like that," Scorpius tried to cry over the top of her, but it only prompted Lily to raise her voice a few decibels. Having brothers had made her particularly good at getting her case heard.

"-but I was having all these difficulties with a particular girl named Priscilla Parkinson who my grandfather thinks is the only possible match for me, and who, through family connections, has also managed to convince her family that I am her one true love. This has resulted in me being harassed all school year, including one incident of being drugged by a particularly strong love potion, and another of kidnapping, and being on my guard constantly as well as fighting off my grandfather's howlers, losing every Quidditch match and failing every assignment in Defence Against the Dark arts which has left me with sleep apnoea."

Lily dragged in a very deep breath before continuing. Scorpius and Albus looked at her with their mouths open; half due to what she had just said, and half because they couldn't quite believe that she had managed to actually _say_ it without having to take a breath at all.

"How on earth do you know _any_ of that?!" The blonde stuttered in disbelief.

"I'm a _girl_," she replied, as if it was obvious how that made her privy to other people's private information. "I make it my business to know other people's business," she continued, before launching into her next imitation.

"Dear Scorpius," she began again, switching to her left hand, "I am slowly wasting away within the same four, boring walls with no one to talk to but my parents. I am really struggling to come to terms with something that is completely beyond your comprehension, yet I secretly pine away for any word of you to come to me, because I am too proud to just send out a letter saying that I desperately need to talk to you. Because I am a hormonal male, I am too stubborn to actually admit that in actual fact, I was missing you very much, because that would make me a pansy and perhaps also cast aspersions on my sexual orientation."

"Your muggle friends really have turned you completely barmy," Scorpius started, as soon as he had managed to collect his jaw from the floor. Albus was still struggling to will his voice box to move.

"Well, at least I'm not as melodramatic as you two," she sighed, tucking the book under her arm, "I swear you're more prone to PMS than most females."

"What's PMS?" Scorpius asked, confusion crossing his pointed features.

"Don't ask!" Albus exclaimed, finally finding his capacity to speak as Lily stared incredulously at the blonde.

"Honestly!" she exclaimed, "maybe Priscilla would have done you a favour by poisoning you! At least you could have learned something of the female anatomy!"

"But I was saving myself for _you-"_ Scorpius countered, sarcasm once again, lacing his tone, before Albus shot him a dirty look.

"I'd rather sleep with a troll!" she exclaimed, her eyes going wide.

"Charming Lily," Albus broke across, "could you remove yourself now?"

"Could have thanked me for resolving your lovers' tiff," she muttered snidely under her breath, as she stalked out of the room, but neither of the boys heard her.

"You got drugged by Priscilla?" Albus turned to Scorpius incredulously.

"Don't want to talk about it," Scorpius replied, narrowing his eyes.

"But how did you not-"

"Not talking about it!"

"You lost _every_ Quidditch game?! I thought Rose was _joking_!"

"Not talking about that either," Scorpius muttered, "stupid Fletcher…"

"You failed Defence Against the-"

"You pined for m-"

"No!"

"Not even a little?"

"Definitely not. No pining."

"Just a small pine?"

"Not even a tiny one!"

"Fair enough," Scorpius replied, feigning a sigh.

"Can I ask you one question though?" Albus asked, his natural inquisitiveness overcoming him.

"Does it have something to do with crazy Slytherins?"

"Well…sort of."

"Then no."

"But not Priscilla?" Albus pushed, raising his eyebrows.

"Okay then," Scorpius replied, his voice sounding tired.

"Why is Sir P sending you howlers?"

Scorpius smirked at the use of the old nickname. He had always felt rather covert talking about his most despised elder in code with Albus.

"You know how he is," the mischievous smile re-etching itself back onto Scorpius' face, "eternally disappointed in his offspring."

"But is that even possible, all the way from France?" Albus asked, his face scrunching up with confusion, "I thought howler's would spontaneously combust if they travelled for too long."

"It's not possible from France, thank goodness, but he decided to return to haunt the halls of the Malfoy Manor permanently this year," Scorpius replied with a scowl. "Which is precisely why I decided to stay at Hogwarts this year for Christmas."

"Oh, of course," Albus said, internally chastising himself for being so irrationally disappointed.

"I asked father if I could stay with you, but I forgot that Sir P opens all the letters when he's in England. Something about security measures, he says, but I really think he's just a nosy prick," Scorpius continued.

"And here I was thinking that you were avoiding me," Albus replied. He tried to sound nonchalant and sarcastic, but it came out a bit weak.

"What? And spend my Christmas running away from Priscilla? Are you mad?" Scorpius scoffed, his hands finding their way back into his hair which he tugged on. Albus noticed any mention of Priscilla incited a kind of terror within Scorpius. He wished that he could have witnessed the kidnapping incident.

"Well, you know, I'm probably just as good looking," he countered, a grin finding a way across his sunken features.

"I think your lack of hair adds to your devilish charm," the blonde replied, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

"Dangerous, even?" Albus quipped.

"Is it too soon to make a Voldemort joke?"

Albus couldn't help but laugh at the suggestion, which was completely at odds with the serious look on his friend's face. In all honesty, it was difficult for the boys to comprehend that their fathers had been in the middle of a war led by a dark, hairless, albino, geriatric wizard.

"Maybe it would be wise not to raise the topic in front of my father," Albus smirked, imagining Scorpius seriously posing that sort of question.

"I already tried with mine," Scorpius said, his eyes narrowing, "he wouldn't even let me _see_ the mark. It doesn't even work anymore, does it? It's just a bloody tattoo!"

"It's probably getting wrinkly with his old age," Albus replied, "imagine how Sir P's would look!"

Scorpius childishly scrunched up his face in disgust. "Enough about him, thank you very much. He's already ruined sixteen summers of my life simply by existing, I'm planning to forget all about him for this one."

"Hear, hear," Albus laughed, raising an imaginary glass.

~.~

"Harry, _please_. Just forget about the stupid wine glasses and set the water glasses on the table," Ginny sighed, totally exasperated. It had felt like an inordinately stressful day, but when she thought about it, she really hadn't done much. She honestly couldn't tell whether it was Harry that made her feel so stressed, or whether her stress was simply being projected at its most common target.

She did feel bad, sort of. It wasn't one hundred percent fair that her husband bore the brunt of her frustration, but it was difficult for Ginny not to be bitter about it all, sometimes. Giving up her dream job to look after her terminally ill son while Harry gallivanted around Britain, being responsible for the household work which bore her to death and being completely unable to challenge herself intellectually, had taken its toll on their relationship. When Albus had confided in her that he felt like a caged animal, she had agreed, and not totally altruistically either.

Now, she was faced with preparing a meal, single-handedly again, for her brother and his family, as well as her own and Scorpius, who she had reluctantly agreed to host for the summer, for the good of Albus. She almost wished she could have called it quits, insisted on ordering take away, and retreated to their bedroom as soon as anyone arrived. Ginny didn't _want_ to socialise with anyone. She didn't even want to speak to Harry, for Merlin's sakes.

The clatter of cutlery on the kitchen floorboards brought her out of her reverie, and she groaned, throwing her hands over her face.

"Harry, I asked for _glasses_, not cutlery!"

"Sorry Gin, I just wasn't-"

"Listening? _Merlin,_ Harry, you never listen!"

Feeling the frustrated tears well in her eyes she quickly rushed to the front bedroom, which she shared with Harry, and sat on the bed in an attempt to collect herself.

It wasn't fair to be taking it out on him, she rationalised. But she _felt_ like he deserved it because he _never_ listened to her, and _never_ helped her and was completely out of touch.

She took deep breaths in order to abate the choking feeling in her throat and the wetness around her eyes. It was very out of character for her to be this emotional, and it was so unsettling that she had felt this way for a while now. She wondered where the old Ginny had gone; the one that was so capable and strong during the war, the one who had held Harry together time after time, as he risked his life for the good of humanity.

Perhaps she had been naive to believe that she could have coexisted with Harry as an equal, even after the defeat of Voldemort. He was never going to be satisfied with fulfilling his duty as a father or a husband, not when there were more pressing, global issues to attend to. Harry wasn't someone who was easy to tie down, or contain. He was never going to be the kind of family oriented person Ginny had once believed he could be. After all, Harry had never really had a family as a child. He probably didn't even know he was failing his own.

Failing may have been a bit harsh, but Ginny didn't care. It was her sacrifices which had kept the family together, not Harry's. But even now, a sickening part of her thought that perhaps, she just didn't _care_ what happened to them anymore. Once Albus was gone, things would be broken anyway, and what was the point in fixing something that no one was happy with?

"Gin," Harry whispered, poking his head around the corner, "the table is set."

He walked over to her gently and sat down next to her. He reached an arm around to touch her shoulder, but she flinched away from it, got up from the bed and walked out with a brief "thanks."

She really shouldn't have been so cold, but Ginny didn't give a shit.

~.~

"Pass the salt please…Lily."

"I can't reach that far Uncle Ron! Scorpius, can you do it? It's right in front of you."

Albus smirked into his potato. He couldn't think of anything more amusing than watching his Uncle do his upmost to avoid addressing a Malfoy, except maybe watch Scorpius squirm under disapproval by someone who was not Lucius.

Scorpius dutifully passed the required condiment and adamantly avoided eye contact with the elder Weasley. It was strange to see his Uncle act in any way which demanded respect. Usually Ron was busy getting whipped at one-on-one Quidditch by Hugo or watching strange, muggle television shows. Albus could count on one hand the times he had seen his uncle get mildly annoyed.

There was something about Malfoys that seemed to set the Weasleys on edge though. Rose and Hugo, of course, were completely non-fussed about Scorpius, but Albus' other cousins steered clear of him at school, and Uncle Ron and even Aunt Hermoine seemed cautious. Albus wondered what kind of magic it took to demand that kind of disdain. His father had once told Albus that Aunt Hermione had socked Scorpius' dad in the face. Albus wished he could have seen that, and when he'd told Scorpius, the blonde had agreed.

Certainly, Scorpius wasn't able to conjure anything remotely dangerous. He'd always been terrible at Defence against the Dark Arts, which probably also meant he was hopeless at the Dark Arts as well. Not that either of them had ever tried. Nevertheless, it was a fact in Albus' mind that Scorpius would probably have made the worst Death Eater the wizarding world had ever seen.

"So Scorpius," Aunt Hermione asked, with a reflective pause, "where do you usually spend your summers?"

It was plainly an attempt at being polite; however Aunt Hermione had probably touched on one of the only sensitive subjects in Scorpius' life. Albus shifted his gaze hesitantly towards his best friend to gauge his reaction. Surprisingly, the blonde simply smiled, placing his knife and fork down politely, and answered honestly.

"Usually at the family home, with my mother," he replied, adding "my father is usually away on business. I rarely see him."

"That monstrosity in Wiltshire?" Uncle Ron muttered, before being shot a sharp look of disapproval by Aunt Hermione. Scorpius, to Albus' surprise, didn't react.

"That very one," he replied, seeming a little unnerved that Ron knew the location of his family home. "I never thought it was particularly homely either, mind you. Much less so now my grandfather has moved back in. We don't exactly see eye to eye," he clarified.

Uncle Ron looked mildly impressed by this comment and said something under his breath about Lucius Malfoy which was quite evidently derogatory. Hermione cleared her throat loudly.

"Would anyone like dessert?" she asked.

After a few shouts of approval, Albus shot his mother a look.

"Yes, Albus," she sighed, giving him a weak smile.

Given his inability to eat dairy, most of the dessert options for Albus were limited. Thus, he always asked to be excused early from the table, under the pretence that he felt sick even looking at cream or milk. It did _actually_ make him feel a bit queasy, but it also gave him an excuse for not doing the dishes at large family dinners. When it was just the three of them at home during school term, neither his mother or father had bothered thinking of dessert at all – all three of them cleaned up what they could and then had collapsed onto their respective beds.

"S, come on," Albus whispered, flicking him under the table.

Scorpius looked hesitant, probably at the internal conflict between politely waiting for everyone to finish at the table, and going upstairs with his best friend. With a pained look on his face, he stood up and took both of their plates to the sink, while everyone was preoccupied with Aunt Hermione's dishing out of plum pudding and cream.

"Thank you very much for dinner, Mrs. Potter," he said, passing Albus' mother's chair. Albus rolled his eyes and lifted an eyebrow in Scorpius' direction. He was far too formal.

"Seriously, they're going to start thinking you're up to something, the way you carry on," he told Scorpius, as they climbed the staircase.

"Mother always told me it was rude not to thank people!" he exclaimed, looking a little confused. "And your Uncle seems to despise me for no good reason, so I have to stay in everyone else's good graces."

"Because they might kick you out? Over my dead body!"

"Really, Al?"

"Ok, that was a terrible joke," Albus conceded, although a smile still played on the edge of his lips. He felt normal and happy again with Scorpius and his family here, and even the prospect of his impending death couldn't mute the content feeling inside him.

"Your humour has always been horrible," Scorpius replied, poking Albus in the ribs. "Ow! I think your rib hurt my finger!"

"I think your finger asked to be hurt," Albus laughed, ushering his best friend in and shutting the door. "Ok, so let's finish this list. I'm terribly impatient."

"Finish the list?" Scorpius snorted, "We've only got two things! Beating James at wizard's chess and convincing your mum to let one of the Irish wolfhound puppies stay here for the summer. That's hardly difficult."

"James is surprisingly good at wizard's chess," Albus warned, throwing a quill at Scorpius' head like a dart.

"What about snogging a girl?"

"I've already snogged a girl!" Albus exclaimed, giving Scorpius a withering look. "It was awfully _mushy_ and…gape-y."

"Gape-y?" Scorpius asked, raising an eyebrow, "Is that even an adjective? Come to think of it, I don't think that's even a _word_."

"You know!" Albus protested, hoping he wasn't blushing, "like when the mouth goes kind of fish-like and you…oh never mind!"

Scorpius had fallen off the bed with laughter as Albus tried to half explain, half mime the sensation of snogging. Albus scrunched up the piece of parchment he had been hovering over and threw it into Scorpius' stomach.

"Well what about we put down: 3. Good snog?" Scorpius suggested, after he had managed to contain himself.

"Who exactly do you envisage is going to snog me?" Albus cried, feeling more exasperated by every second he had to think about snogging, "the only people I really know in this neighbourhood are my relations!"

"What's wrong with a bit of incest?" Scorpius smirked, revelling in Albus' outrage.

"Well I hear Malfoy's aren't averse to it," Albus muttered under his breath.

"It really is unfortunate your birthday is two days before the school term starts," Scorpius said, ignoring his friend's derisive comment, "I guess you could side-along with me."

"And go where exactly?" Albus asked. "My parents will have a fit if they find out you've kidnapped their terminally ill child!"

"Well at least you wouldn't be a terminally virginal child!" Scorpius said brightly, snatching the quill and parchment from Albus and writing the offending item on the list.

"Right then," Albus sighed, deciding to concede this one. You had to pick your battles with Scorpius, and it didn't feel right to be arguing over snogging. He would just erase it while Scorpius was sleeping – the muggle way.

The next hour and a half was full of Albus' eyebrows shooting skyward, rolling his eyes and hitting himself in the head with a pillow. As time went on, Scorpius' suggestions only got more and more outrageous, but finally, by midnight, the two had created a to-do list with ten items. Albus still hadn't managed to erase the snogging suggestion, but it had taken him this long to fight his friend into reasonable suggestions that he temporarily forgot all about it. That was, until Scorpius had suggested making some kind of blood-pact over the list.

"Have you gone mental?"

Albus' question sounded rather weak, but to be fair, he was past the point of being shocked by Scorpius' suggestions. He wondered how, after six years of close friendship, he was not totally immune to the outlandish proposals.

"Oh come on!" The blonde protested; "I learned about this one from my defence text book this year. It's a spell that compels you to think about the items on the list, so basically you do them, or go _mad_."

"That sounds like a very sensible idea," Albus said, sarcasm running through his tone thicker than ever before. "Tell me, this must surely be the first thing you've ever learnt from your defence text book."

Scorpius narrowed his eyes. "I'll have you know I learned a lot from Bloomberg this year, without you there to distract me."

Albus felt a twinge of pain as Scorpius noted his absence. Maybe Scorpius really didn't miss him at school after all. But he shrugged it off as best he could with the help of derision and mockery.

"I'd hope so. You can't exactly cheat your way through your NEWTS like you did in your OWLS."

Scorpius lightened up and laughed. "Okay, okay,' so what you're saying is that my knowledge from my reading isn't reliable."

"Sure," Albus replied, smirking a little.

"Well, what about something I _know_ works?" Scorpius began, and Albus couldn't help but feel that this conversation was going in exactly the wrong direction.

"What? Like an unbreakable vow?" Albus scoffed, "keep it up, your ideas are getting better and better."

"Oh no," Scorpius replied, a pensive smile on his face, "I'm just trying to think of good incentives."

"Great."

"I think," Scorpius begun again, "that if you fail to complete your to do list within six weeks, I should get to…snog Lily."

"What?!" Albus cried, genuinely surprised. "What is the point in that Scorpius? That doesn't scare me into checking 10 items off, that just makes me want to punch you!"

"I'd like to see you try," he sniggered.

"So you're going to insert your perverted feelings about my little sister into my goals for the last two months _of my life_?!"

"Albus!" Scorpius exclaimed, catching the other boy off guard.

"What? You said it," Albus said, his confusion rising.

"I don't _want_ to snog Lily you idiot," Scorpius replied, now smiling again, "I just don't know how else to threaten you into completing the outrageous mission I've created."

"How would Priscilla feel?" Albus asked, repainting the sarcastic façade onto his face.

Scorpius shuddered and puckered his lips like he'd tasted something very sour. It was unusual to see such dislike on someone who generally, could get along with anyone.

"I'll snog Lily right now if you mention that once more," he threatened.

"I think I'll take my chances," Albus replied, with a laugh, settling his head back down onto the bed and gazing at the ceiling through darkness. Two feet away, he heard Scorpius flop down onto the fold out.

"How does that bed fare in comparison to the one at that monstrosity in Wiltshire?" Albus teased, smiling up into nothingness.

"Not too bad," Scorpius said, through a yawn. "Although," he continued slowly, playfulness creeping up into his tone, "I'd much rather be next door, right up close to-"

Albus swiftly removed the pillow from behind his head and whacked it down onto his friend's face near the end of his bed. Scorpius and Lily relations might not have been his favourite topic, but aside from the uncomfortable pit in his stomach which was attributable to distasteful mental images, he couldn't have said he was angry. Scorpius was too _Scorpius_ to be angry with.

Besides, Albus reasoned, worse things have definitely happened to him.


End file.
